U Is for Undertow

Boston, speeding toward Chicago at eighty miles an hour. A bird flies back and forth between the two . . .
    And that’s as far as I’d get. I’d start wondering why the bird was behaving so erratically, positing a virus affecting the bird’s internal gyroscope. I’d daydream about who was on the train and why they were going from Chicago to Boston. Then I’d fret about what was happening in Boston that residents had crowded into the fastest train out. I’d never been to Boston and now I was forced to scratch it off my list.
    What I experienced jotting down my notes was just another version of the same. I couldn’t “get” the big picture. I couldn’t grasp what was going on, so I found myself attending to issues that probably had nothing to do with anything. For instance, I wondered what they’d added to Rain’s lemonade that knocked her out. Probably some over-the-counter sleep aid, though the proper dosage must have been a trick. I thought about the kidnapper dressed as Saint Nick, curious how he’d come up with a Santa Claus suit in early July. Short of working in a department store at Christmas or standing outside a supermarket ringing a Salvation Army bell, it couldn’t be an easy outfit to rent in the middle of summer. There was no point in checking local costume shops to see if there were records going back that far. I could do it, but after twenty-one years, I’d be spinning my wheels, staying busy for the sake of it instead of canvassing with any hope of success.
    I tossed my pen aside. This was pointless. Usually I surrender to the process, letting my thoughts idle while my attention is otherwise occupied. Recording minutiae is a form of play, temporarily derailing the analytical side of my brain. At the moment, frustration was jamming my circuits. There was something distinctly unpleasant about pondering the same disjointed facts when nothing new was coming in. I could fiddle the story any way I liked and the bottom line was the same. Michael Sutton was wrong. He’d made a mistake. Everything that rested on his basic premise was out the window.
    Irritably I gathered the cards, secured them with a rubber band, and stuck them in a drawer. Enough of this. I needed Henry’s company and his counsel. I opened the front door and peered across to Henry’s kitchen. All his lights were out. I picked up my jacket and shoulder bag, locked my front door, and made a beeline for Rosie’s. I spotted him the moment I walked in. I pulled out a chair and sat down, peering at the plate Rosie had just put in front of him.
    To her, he said, “Thank you, dear. It looks lovely.” He smiled, watching her depart.
    “Is that the special of the day?”
    He shook his head. “Oh no, you’ll want to steer clear of that.” He peered over his shoulder to make sure she wasn’t in eavesdropping range. By then she was at the bar chatting with William while she kept a close eye on us.
    Henry put a hand to his mouth, in case she’d recently learned to read lips. “She’s serving calf’s-liver pudding with anchovy sauce. It comes with a cup of souse’s soup, made with sauerkraut.” He paused for a moment while he crossed his eyes and then pointed to his plate. “This dish is stuffed cabbage and it’s not half bad.”
    “Got it,” I said.
    He paused to study me. “How are you doing? I haven’t seen you for days.”
    “Go on with your dinner. Let me grab a glass of wine and I’ll fill you in.”
    “I can wait,” he said.
    By the time I reached the bar, Rosie had disappeared and William had poured me a glass of bad wine. I said, “Thanks. Would you ask Rosie if I could have the stuffed cabbage? It looks fabulous.”
    “Sure thing.”
    I returned to the table, wineglass in hand. Moments later Rosie appeared with my dinner plate. Henry and I spent the next five minutes in companionable silence while we ate. When it comes to food, neither of us fools around. As a reward for cleaning our plates, Rosie brought us each a slice of chocolate-poppy seed torte that reduced us to a state of moaning satisfaction.
    Henry said, “Now, tell me what’s going on. When you walked in, your expression was so dark I didn’t dare ask. Is the misery about family or work?”
    “Work.”
    “So skip that and bring me up to date on the family saga.”
    “I can’t remember what was going on when we last spoke. Did I tell you I had dinner here with Tasha? This was a week ago.”
    “News to me.”
    “Wow, you really are